


Alienus

by The_Arkadian



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, eventual fenders, not a Mary-Sue I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2018-11-06 03:33:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11027745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: So, I thought long and hard about posting this, but decided what the hell.This is a self-insert fic, but I promise no Mary-Sues here. No OC/Hawke, no OC/Anders, no OC/Fenris. There'll be eventual fenders; beyond that, I have no preconceived ideas where this will go.





	1. Chapter 1

I slowly come awake to the feeling of gritty sand beneath my left cheek.

I’m lying sprawled on my side, and the ground is hard yet warm. I can feel the sun on my face. It’s warm against my sleeved right arm, but I can feel the sand against my bare left arm.

That’s... odd. Am I only half-dressed? What’s going on? How did I get here? I fell asleep in my own bed last night - didn’t I?

Maybe I walked in my sleep. I’ve done that before; I once fell asleep on the sofa and woke up to find myself about three miles away, standing at the side of the road between Hemel and St Albans, no shoes and only one sock in just jeans and a ratty old Whitesnake t-shirt and a pair of policemen asking if I was alright.

That was... hmm, what, 16? 17 years ago? Something like that. Weird that I should start sleepwalking again now. 

I’m trying to think just where around London I could be, to be lying on a sandy surface, when I become aware of shouting and the clash of metal on metal not far away. 

Swords? Have I somehow gone sleepwalking and found myself in a re-enactment show??

I open my eyes, and suddenly everything is very wrong.

_We’re not in Kansas any more, Toto._

My first thought is _man, those are some excellent cosplay costumes - my god, that guy looks so like Varric it’s unreal - and fuck me, that Fenris -_

Which is when the Fenris cosplayer lights up like some extra out of _Tron_ and phases through a guy in leather armour to reappear on the other side, clutching what looks like the man’s heart. As said guy collapses to the ground looking very, very dead.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m dreaming. I HAVE to be dreaming._ I vow that’s the last time I’m ever eating cheese before bedtime.

I sit up. This all feels too real for a dream. I can smell the sharp, coppery tang of blood in the air, feel the bite of gritty sand against my palms. _I’m inside a video game. Oh, fuck me...._

That’s really Varric, large as life, wielding Bianca (and oh man but I so want to get my hands on Bianca and see for myself just how the hell such an improbable-looking crossbow could possibly work), and Fenris leaping around as a freaking lyrium ghost, and that bear-like guy with long, wavy dark brown hair just has to be Hawke. At which point I look around until -

There. Anders. It’s unmistakably him, from the strawberry-blond hair pulled back into a half-ponytail and the stubble, to the feathered pauldrons, to the buckles on the long coat and the buckled boots. Twirling his staff, gesturing with unconscious grace as actinic fire uncurls from his long fingers to slam into the chest of a Tevinter magister who crumples to the ground, very much dead, the scent of ozone upon the air as Anders shakes sparks from his fingers and then glances around.

His eyes fall on me and he lifts his hand, energies coalescing around it once more as he hefts his staff, and I lift my hands as my eyes widen.

“I’m not one of them!” I exclaim.

He pauses, then glances to Hawke who has turned to stare at me, hefting his twin blades. 

“She was out cold on the sand when we got here, Hawke,” says Varric as he slings Bianca on his back and walks towards me. “And they didn’t seem to be too worried over her being unconscious on the ground. Probably some poor sod picked up by the slavers.” He gives me a reassuring grin. “Guess it’s your lucky day, kiddo.”

Anders has lowered his staff, the fire upon his palm dissipating as he watches me. I glance around; Fenris is no longer glowing, though he’s eyeing me distrustfully. I glance back at Hawke, who is sheathing his blades as he walks over. He halts a footstep away and stares down at me for a moment, then holds out a hand. Wordlessly I take it, planting my heel firmly before hauling myself up against his strong grip.

“I’m Mikhail Hawke,” he says, then jerks his head towards the others in turn. “Varric, Anders, Fenris.” His eyes still bore into me and he hasn’t let go of my hand. “Are you alright? You look pale.”

I’m not about to let on that I already know who they are. It’s probably far safer to keep that to myself - besides, I have no idea at which point in the game this is, whether it’s the basic game or whether and which any DLCs have been added and played. Too many variables unknown. I shouldn’t trust to what I _think_ I know about the game. Besides, I already know the story is told from Varric’s point of view - and he’s not exactly the most truthful of storytellers. I should assume I know nothing of this world. 

“Arkady,” I answer. “And... thanks, I guess. Um... I have no idea how I got here - or even where ‘here’ actually is.”

Anders presses forward with a concerned look. “I’m a healer,” he says. “May I check you over? Memory loss can be caused by many things - concussion foremost, but the magister may have used blood magic on you.”

I already know he’s a Spirit Healer, but he has no way of knowing that I know that. I make myself deliberately glance at the staff on his back then meet his gaze and give him a small nod. Hawke releases my hand and steps back out of Anders’ way.

He gives me a reassuring smile as he reaches out to press glowing fingertips to my forehead. I feel briefly dizzy and close my eyes for a moment.

I can feel his magic sinking into me, which I wasn’t expecting; it tingles, and then the sensation spreads, warm and comforting as it hums through my veins, until he steps back and lifts his hand away. I open my eyes again and raise one eyebrow.

“Well, there’s nothing _physically_ wrong with you,” he begins slowly.

“But...?” prompts Hawke with a frown.

“I could feel residue from a massive magical discharge all through her,” replies Anders. “Mostly Spirit, but a hefty dose of Primal - and something that is just raw magic. Nothing that _feels_ like blood magic, but that doesn’t always mean much if the blood mage concerned called up a demon to do the dirty work for them. Whatever it was, it discharged a _lot_ of energy through her body.” He turns back to me. “I’m guessing that’s what’s responsible for your amnesia. You evidently remember your own name, but do you remember anything else?”

“Hardly a thing,” I lie. I know perfectly well that I fell asleep in my own bed last night as normal; I just don’t know how I got _here_.

“Your accent is Ferelden,” says Hawke slowly.

“Yet she is wearing Tevinter robes,” Fenris interjects unexpectedly, his eyes hard and unfriendly.

I automatically glance down at my clothes.

Well... he’s not _wrong_. I recognise my garments straight away - it’s a cosplay outfit I designed myself. I’d had this idea of cosplaying a Tevinter magister at the next London Comic-Con. It’s a one-sleeved tunic, underneath a slate-blue asymmetrical one-sleeved coat; it has a long half-skirt that covers my right leg to the calf, whilst on the left side it falls to just below my hip, and the right sleeve is full but falls only to my elbow over the long sleeve of the tunic. My bare left arm is adorned by a silver serpent bracelet around my bicep, and a black feathered epaulette fans out over my shoulder. I can feel the subtle weight of a loose hood against my shoulders and back. I’m wearing belt pouches as well, though I have no idea what could be in them - they feel heavy, as though they’re full with god knows what; a long knife in a black leather sheath hangs on my left hip. The costume is supposed to be hanging up on the back of my bedroom door. I most definitely _wasn’t_ wearing it when I went to bed last night.

_All very strange._ This really isn’t helping me work out if this is just a really vivid dream or actually happening. It _can’t_ be happening. And yet this all feels just too real. There’s a familiar twinge in my back from lying too long on the ground and I’m beginning to get a headache from the overly-bright sunshine.

“I have no idea why I’m wearing this,” I say truthfully.

“We’ll worry about that later,” decides Hawke. “Those slavers are dealt with so we need to get back and report to Aveline. You should come with us.”

“Lead on,” I reply with a shrug. 

As we head off down the nearest sandy path, I fall into step next to Anders; the stink-eye Fenris is giving me has me nervous. I’m guessing the Tevinter robes mean I’m off his Satinalia list....

***

It takes four hours to walk to Kirkwall, during which I learn that Hawke reclaimed his family estate in Hightown about four months ago, so we’re somewhere near the beginning of Act 2. From the way all four men interact and their conversation, I’m able to work out he’s still single, though he casually flirts with both Anders and Fenris. Who... seem to be sniping at each other far less than I remember from party dialogue in the game. Varric’s unreliable narration again? No idea. Hawke is friendly with everyone and after a while I find myself being included in his easy camaraderie. Maybe it’s his charisma, but I can’t help but reciprocate; I find myself walking between him and Anders, slowly feeling more at ease. Varric walks just in front of us, and Fenris is somewhere behind.

The first thing I notice when we arrive in Kirkwall is that it’s an awful lot bigger than I remember from the game, and it rapidly becomes clear that the game maps depicted only a small portion of each area of the city.

And the game didn’t prepare me for the smells.

The streets leading to the area the game maps covered are completely unfamiliar to me; I stick close to Anders and Varric, who gives me a reassuring grin as I glance around, bewildered.

“Welcome to Kirkwall, kid,” he smiles, one hand gesturing to the crowded and busy street around us.

“You’ll get used to it fairly quickly,” Anders says quietly. “It’s confusing at first, but you should get your bearings pretty fast. And there are a lot of Fereldans in Kirkwall these days - refugees from the Blight that stayed after it was over.”

“Best introduce her to Lirene, Blondie,” suggests Varric.

“Good idea,” agrees Hawke. He glances back at me. “Lirene’s Fereldan; she’s helped many of the refugees to find their feet - somewhere to live, jobs, things like that.” He smiles, crinkles forming at the corner of his brown eyes along laughter lines. I get the impression this Hawke laughs a lot.

It doesn’t take long to reach the Hanged Man. The smells of stale pipe tobacco smoke, sweat, sour ale, vomit and worse hit me the moment we enter. Varric chuckles as he glances at me; I’ve involuntarily wrinkled my nose at the assault on my nostrils.

“Yeah, it catches you like that the first time, kid,” he remarks. “It’s another thing you’ll get used to pretty fast, too.” 

He leads us upstairs to his suite, and thankfully the worst of the stench is shut out by the door.

“I’ll fetch the drinks,” rumbles Fenris. He glances at me, hesitates, then inclines his head in an unspoken question.

“Do they serve any half-decent mead here?” I ask. From the smells in the common room downstairs I already know that I definitely don’t want to risk the beer here, and I can understand why Fenris always drinks wine. I have the nasty feeling that any white wine they might serve here would taste rather vinegary and sour however. I _should_ be OK with mead though.

At least, I hope so.

Fenris disappears downstairs, and Varric waves us to sit down at the table as he sets Bianca aside on a stand next to his own chair. I find myself sitting between Hawke and Anders; I’m glad to take the weight off my feet for a while. I’m not used to hiking for several hours like that. Thankfully the boots I woke up in seem to fit very well and be suitable for walking in; blisters would just be one more discomfort I could do without.

Speaking of which, I become aware that now I’m no longer walking, a certain pressing need is making itself known, and I feel my heart sink. I’m pretty certain that a low-class tavern like the Hanged Man isn’t going to have modern conveniences like flushing toilets - which means I’m going to have to brave a mediaeval privy. It’s that or squirm uncomfortably until I wet myself.

Ugh.

“Um... Varric, where’s the privy?” I ask, desperately hoping there actually is one - because if I have to use a chamber pot I think I’ll just about die of embarrassment. The idea of the privy suddenly seems the lesser of two evils.

Fortunately for me, there is indeed a privy, just a couple of doors down the corridor from Varric’s suite.

It’s not quite as smelly as the portaloos at the Broadstairs Folk Festival on a hot August afternoon, at least. That’s not saying much though. There’s no toilet paper here either.

I finish up as quickly as I can, then take a few extra minutes to have a quick look through the pouches on my belt. 

There’s a coin purse in one, with a handful of silver, a few coppers, and four gold sovereigns. There are three small vials in another that contain a glowing blue liquid. I’m guessing they’re lyrium? Useless to me, unless somehow by turning up in Thedas I’ve suddenly gained the ability to wield magic - but I don’t fancy the risk of poisoning myself with lyrium to find out. Or setting myself on fire, even supposing I could figure how to cast anything. I think I’ll quietly pass the lyrium over to Anders - he’ll no doubt be glad of it.

There are a couple of red potions in another pouch; from the handwritten label I can tell they’re healing potions. (I try not to think too hard about just why the common trade language in Thedas happens to have the same written alphabet as English.) Searching through the other pouches turns up a whetstone, a few more coppers, a handful of hair pins - and that’s it. No clues to how I got here or who these clothes belong to.

I straighten my clothes and wash my hands in the basin of cold water, wincing at the slight sting of lye from the cheap, poorly-made soap, and make my way back to Varric’s room to find Fenris has returned with drinks and there’s a glass of mead waiting for me at my place at the table.

“Well now, who’s this sweet thing?” purrs a voice, and I turn to find myself being eyed by a tall woman who can only be Isabela. 

“Rivaini, meet Arkady. We found her out by the coast,” says Varric. 

“Really? And what were you doing there?” asked Isabela with interest.

“She hasn’t a clue,” interjects Hawke. “She has amnesia.”

“Likely caused by blood magic; we wiped out a nest of slavers led by a magister,” remarks Fenris, his lip curling with distaste.

“I can see why they’d be interested in you - that red hair is quite spectacular,”remarks Isabela.

“Yes, well, lucky for me that Hawke, Varric, Anders and Fenris showed up,” I shrug as I step away; I’m not really comfortable having someone so close in my personal space. I retreat to my seat and reach for the mead.

It’s not bad actually - a little on the dry side and sharp, but drinkable, which is a relief. 

“I’ll need to check in with Aveline, let her know about those slavers,” remarks Hawke. Varric nods.

“She’ll probably drop by after her shift’s done,” he replies. “What have you got lined up next, Hawke?”

“Oh, Hubert’s still fussing about workers deserting from the Bone Pit,” shrugs Hawke. “I’m going to have to go check it out.”

“Probably spiders again,” Anders says dolefully. “I’d best check my supplies and brew up some antidotes for spider venom.”

“Probably a good idea,” nods Hawke. “And we need to introduce Arkady to Lirene.”

“She can come with me,” replies Anders. “I need to check in with Lirene and see if anything came up in the clinic whilst we were away anyway.” He turns to me. “When you’re ready, of course,” he adds.

“Thanks,” I reply. 

“Any idea what skills you have?” asks Hawke, leaning forward.

“Well... I can read and write,” I answer slowly. I twirl the stem of my glass thoughtfully. “And I can brew mead.” I grin, then ponder what other skills I have that might be useful. “I can ride a horse, and I’m not bad at archery. Um... I can play flute, the lute, and sing?”

“I play lute too!” says Hawke with a delighted grin. “So, an archer, huh?” he adds thoughtfully. “I could use an archer. Any good with a sword?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit truthfully. I’m not sure how well re-enactment sword fighting would translate to using an actual real sword. “I don’t think I’ve ever faced real combat. Waking up to that fight was... well.” I shrug. It was rather disconcerting and looked more than a little chaotic, and I’d rather not get any closer to another fight like that than I can help.

“You’re dressed like a magister, but you’re not a mage,” Fenris drawls slowly; he manages to make it sound both like a question and a statement simultaneously.

“Not that I’m aware of,” I shrug. 

Hawke glances to Anders and arches an eyebrow in question.

“I honestly can’t say if you are or not,” the apostate replies. “There was so much residual magical energy in your body that it would mask any natural ability, and I’m not sure how your amnesia might affect it either.”

“Pfaugh,” sneers Fenris. “That’s all we need - a mage who can’t control her abilities.”

“Now, elf, we don’t know that,” Varric interjects reprovingly.

I make a mental note not to mention the lyrium in my belt pouch - at least, not around Fenris.

“Well, if you’re an archer, then I could use your skills in the Bone Pit,” says Hawke, reaching for his tankard. “Assuming you’re interested? I’d pay you for your time. We can pick up a bow for you from the market here in Lowtown.”

I ponder his offer. Anders’ mention of spider venom antidote has me more than a little worried about the risks of this Bone Pit; on the other hand, the coin in my purse likely won’t go far. “Who else is going?”

“Me,” sighs Anders. Hawke glances at him, and Anders gives him a shrug. “You’ll need a healer.”

“I certainly won’t say no,” grins Hawke.

“My blade is at your service as ever, Hawke,” Fenris adds.

“Excellent!” Hawke claps his hands, evidently pleased. “Varric?”

“Sorry, Hawke, not this time,” replies Varric. “I’m going to be tied up with merchant’s guild business I’m afraid.”

“Then I guess you’ll be needing my archery skills,” I realise. I give a slow nod. “OK. I’m in.”

“Well, if that’s all settled, I need to go talk to Lirene,” says Anders as he downs the rest of his cider. He turns to me. “Coming?”

I nod, hastily downing the rest of my mead.

“I’ll come with you,” offers Hawke. “We can have a look at the weapons stalls on the way and see if we can find you a half-decent bow.” He finishes off the last of his ale, and we leave.

I can’t help but wonder what I’ve just let myself in for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirkwall is bigger than I was expecting. A shopping trip and an eventful night's sleep.

The marketplace in Lowtown is in another of the areas not covered by the game maps. I’m glad I’m following Hawke and Anders, because I’m certain I would have become hopelessly lost otherwise. I keep a hand on the pouch that contains my coin purse, wary of pickpockets.

Hawke leads the way to the corner of the market where there are a few merchants selling weapons. I browse a selection of bows, and find a fairly reasonable steel bow. It reminds me of the ones used in the Mughal period in India - the steel black, with a horn grip. I used to own a repro one myself years back, though that one had an annoying tendency to pull to the left, and I hope this one won’t do the same. The stallholder claims it’s a Tevinter horse bow. It’s the right draw length for my arms and at the upper end of my maximum draw weight - about 30lb of pull, I’d guess, which isn’t a great deal of range; maybe 70 yards tops - but should be reasonably lethal to spiders at the kinds of distances I’m likely to encounter in the confined quarters of the Bone Pit.I used to do field shooting with a 40lb recurve, but that was back in the days when I was chucking around 70lb cheeses in a chilled foods warehouse all night, and since then I’ve only really been plinking around with a little 20lb practice bow in the back yard or in the odd LARP battle on weekends. I wonder what the chances are that I can get in a few practice shots before we go into the Bone Pit to get a feel for the new bow. Likely not good, I suspect. Hawke pays for the bow and a quiver of thirty arrows with basic broadheads - hunting arrows for large game like deer; I sling the bow on my back, the quiver at my left hip next to the long dagger, and then we head on to Lirene’s. 

We pass a stall selling a selection of hand weapons; at the back I spot what looks like a selection of mages’ staves. My eyes are drawn between the swords and the staves and I really, _really_ want a closer look at both. Anders notices me glancing at the staves and gives me a questioning look; I shake my head and carry on walking. Mages may be my favourite class to play in just about any fantasy game, but that doesn’t mean I would necessarily want to become one for real - at least, not somewhere like Thedas with templars waiting around every corner, it seems, and apostates are treated like criminals. I’ll quite gladly leave the magic to the likes of Anders and Merrill, who at least know what the hell they’re doing.

I still want to have a good look at those swords though. Even though I don’t dare even think about buying one - if I wear a sword somewhere like this, people will expect me to be able to use it which would get me into trouble real fast. Re-enactment experience might be enough to be able to block and parry a sword attack but I’d really rather not put it to the test.

Lirene’s place is, at least, in a part of Lowtown I recognise, but I’ve already worked out that I can’t count on my memories of the map layout from the game. In fact, it’s occurred to me that I would do well to just forget whatever I _think_ I know from the game and various fanfics altogether.

Lirene in real life is actually a little less abrasive, personality-wise, than she comes across in-game, for a start - or perhaps we’ve simply caught her at a good time. She welcomes Hawke and Anders with genuine warmth, then glances at me with questioning look.

“Brought me another stray, Hawke?” she asks before turning to me. “You don’t look like one of my usual refugees.”

“I’m not - well, at least, I don’t think I am,” I say slowly.

“We found her out on the coast,” explains Hawke. “She’d run afoul of Tevinter slavers.”

“Not surprised with that hair,” remarks Lirene. I’m beginning to feel intensely self-conscious about my hair now. Hair dyed an unnaturally-bright crimson does tend to stand out, it seems.

“Arkady has amnesia,” Anders says, gesturing to me briefly. “Likely a side-effect of whatever magic they used on her; I have no idea how long it’s likely to last. But she’s going to need some help getting settled.”

“Well, I can tell you now that I’ve never laid eyes on you before, and all the Fereldans pass through my doors sooner or later,” Lirene assures me. “You’ll be needing somewhere to stay, I dare say. Jobs are scarce though, I’ll warn you now.”

“I’ll take care of that,” answers Hawke. “She’s coming out with us to the Bone Pit tomorrow.”

Lirene eyes me speculatively, then shrugs. “Fair enough. It’ll take me a day or two to find out who’s got rooms free. I hope you’re not too picky - it might mean Darktown, I’m afraid, unless you’ve the coin for something better.”

“I’m sure Mother won’t object to putting you up for a day or two until Lirene gets you settled somewhere,” Hawke offers.

Lirene nods. “Probably for the best, for I haven’t the room here, I’m afraid.”

Hawke glances to Anders. “Walk up with us - you can use the shortcut through the cellar to get back to your clinic.”

“Alright,” nods Anders. “You go on ahead - I’ll catch you up.”

Hawke drops a handful of coins in the donation box, then beckons me to follow. Anders and Lirene are already moving away to chat quietly; I turn and follow Hawke back outside.

The sun is starting to set as we make our way up towards Hightown. I’m beginning to wonder how on earth I’ll be able to keep track of all these twisting roads and odd little alleyways and passages, with steep stone staircases in various places leading both up and down. All I can do is just try to keep up with Hawke - not easy, given that he’s rather taller and longer-legged than I am. He moves surprisingly fast for a heavyset man in full armour.

I’m quiet as I follow him. Part of it is because I’m saving my breath - the steps up to Hightown are steep, and there’s a _lot_ of them. (I can’t help but wonder what happens to people who aren’t able-bodied; do they just... never leave Lowtown? I guess disabled nobles can afford to have someone just carry them everywhere. Or is there a lift somewhere, like the one that goes down to Darktown from Lowtown?) Part of it is because I’m trying to pay attention to all the twists and turns in case I have to find my way back on my own at some point. But mostly it’s because the reality of my situation is finally sinking in.

I’ve woken up in a strange world with no idea of how I got here - or how I’m supposed to get back. And I have no idea what’s happening in my own world whilst I’m stranded here. Did I just... vanish? I left a husband, a young daughter back there - and she’s just ten, autistic, how the hell is her father going to be able to explain this to her? What is her father going to tell her when I’m not there to tuck her into bed tonight - when I’m still not there in the morning?

Or was I in some kind of accident, and this is all just some really vivid hallucination and I’m really lying in a coma in a hospital bed somewhere? But I’ve had fever dreams before, and they never felt anywhere near as real as this does. I’ve never hallucinated that my back hurt and my feet ached like this.

I become aware that Hawke has halted and is staring at me.

“You’re very quiet,” he observes. “Are you alright?”

“I’m... just trying to make sense of what’s happened to me,” I confess truthfully. “It’s all rather strange and odd. We turn a corner and I see something I think I halfway recognise, then we turn another and I realise I really have no idea where I am.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “That sounds very distressing.”

“Frustrating, mostly,” I shrug. “And tired, which isn’t helping much.”

“It’s not much further,” he reassures me.

We turn another corner and pass beneath a gate, and we’re back in an area I think I recognise from the Hightown map. We should be at the Amell estate in another five minutes’ walk I think.

Hawke halts for a moment; I’m about to ask him what’s up when I hear it too - booted feet hurrying after us. A moment later Anders appears, taking the stairs two at a time. He pauses at the top for a moment to catch his breath before joining us. Hawke waits for him to catch up, greeting him with a nod before turning to lead the way on.

The Amell estate never looked that big to me in the game; when you’re standing in front of it, it’s rather significantly bigger - just like the rest of Kirkwall, really. Hawke opens the door and gestures to us to enter.

The foyer is spacious and floored with polished dark oak parquet. It reminds me somewhat of some stately homes I’ve visited in the past; the quietly distinguished atmosphere that bespeaks generations of nobility in slow decline. I glance around it then back at Hawke as he enters behind Anders; he seems somewhat out of place here in this mansion that he calls home. Too brash, too down-to-earth.

“Mikhail, you didn’t tell me you were bringing home guests!” exclaims a voice; I turn to see an older woman sweeping down the staircase with the subconscious grace and air of one who was born to live in a house like this. I’d know this were Hawke’s mother Leandra even if I’d never played the game or read any of the hundreds of fanfics online; Hawke has her eyes.

“Lady Amell,” I greet her, dipping my head in a brief bow. Leandra pauses at the bottom of the stairs then approaches us with a warm smile.

“Mikhail, dear, who is this charming young lady?” she inquires. 

_Young??_ I nearly snort in amusement. Leandra can’t be _that_ much older than me. Then again, I’ve never looked my age - most people tend to assume I’m about ten years younger than I actually am. The gift of good genes, and all that. It’s a family trait in my family, much as magic is in Leandra’s.

Mind you, you wouldn’t think that Anders were in his forties either, to look at him. I guess there must be _some_ perks to being a Grey Warden, beside the whole fabled stamina and immunity to the Blight thing. 

Mikhail makes introductions, and Leandra promptly takes charge, dispatching Bodahn to ready one of the spare rooms. She fails to persuade Anders to stay for dinner; he excuses himself gently and soon is on his way back to Darktown through the cellars. I watch him go; I find myself wondering how his clinic compares to what I saw in the game - then I think upon the stench that greeted me in the Hanged Man and how much worse Darktown must be, and decide I can put off finding out until another time. 

The food reminds me of the fare I tasted once at a medieval banquet and the sort of meals I had back when I did English Civil War reenactment stuff. Nug meat tastes a little like pork, with a gamey hint of rabbit. It’s served with a light sauce based around apples, though I can taste a hint of mint and pepper in it too, and something else I can’t quite identify. I find myself idly wondering which country in Thedas produces pepper.

Hawke explains to Leandra that I have amnesia, and she regards me with concern. “Well, whoever you are, evidently you’re well-bred,” she remarks. “Your voice and your manners give that much away, my dear.” She glances to her son. “Maybe she was kidnapped by those dreadful slavers for ransom?”

“Which doesn’t explain the Tevinter magister get-up you’re wearing, Arkady,” Hawke replies.

“Well, evidently they must have needed to clothe her as they travelled, and that was the only thing they had that fitted her,” shrugs Leandra as she turns to me. “Don’t worry, my dear - I will have more suitable clothing made for you; I’ll send for my own seamstress in the morning.”

“We’re going to the Bone Pit in the morning, Mother - or had you forgotten?” says Hawke sternly as he tucks into a second helping.

“Oh Mikhail, you _can’t_ take her to that dreadful place!” exclaims Leandra.

“She’s an archer, and Varric can’t come with us. I need her skills,” Hawke shrugs.

Leandra regards us both with dismay, then gives a resigned sigh. “Well, have your own way, Mikhail; you usually do. If I couldn’t dissuade you over my poor Bethany -” She breaks off with a small choked sob, then lays down her napkin. “Excuse me,” she gasps, before rising and fleeing.

“Mother!” exclaims Hawke as he gets to his feet as though to follow her; but then he sighs, dragging a hand over his face slowly before retaking his seat. 

“I’m sorry,” he shrugs apologetically. “My younger sister Bethany, she... we were on an expedition to the Deep Roads. Bethany... didn’t come back with us.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

“She contracted the Blight. Thankfully there was a party of Grey Wardens down there, on an expedition of their own; Anders persuaded them to take her with them. We had a letter a month later saying she’d passed the Joining and she’s now a Grey Warden; we haven’t heard anything since then. Mother is taking it very hard. We lost Bethany’s twin brother Carver back in Ferelden shortly after we fled Lothering during the Blight. It’s just Mother and I now.” He starts poking his food desultorily.

I’m trying to think of something comforting to say when he glances up and notices my empty plate.

“If you’ve finished, I could show you to your room, if you like?” he offers.

“Yes please,” I reply. I’m tired and my head is still aching slightly; bed sounds like a wonderful idea.

Hawke shows me to my room, tells me where I can find the bathroom (it seems the Amell mansion boasts dwarven plumbing - including what sounds like an actual toilet; possibly similar to one of the early models from the 17th century?), bids me goodnight and then I’m alone. 

I wash my hands and face in the washing bowl on the nightstand before stripping down to my smalls. There’s a white linen nightdress laid out on the foot of the bed - likely one of Leandra’s, I guess. I’m more used to sleeping either topless or in a t-shirt, but I put it on then crawl thankfully into bed.

I’m asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

***

I dream of the Fade - and even in dreams, it’s bigger, stranger and more wonderful than the games ever portrayed. 

And more terrifying.

I dream I’m approached by a Desire Demon. He’s charming, friendly, way too keen on being right up in my personal space and _very_ touchy-feely. The dream is so vivid that I can _feel_ the heat of his hands as they rove over my body, the touch of his lips on my collarbone, my throat.

“Let me in,” he croons, his violet eyes gazing into mine. “You can have anyone you desire - man or woman. Tell me, who do you desire?”

I laugh at him. “No-one,” I reply truthfully.

“That cannot be,” purrs the demon as he winds himself about me, wandering hands touching me everywhere. “Everyone desires someone or something....” I feel a hand dip between my legs, questing fingers probing into my body, invading me - and I push him away roughly.

“Keep your fucking hands to yourself!” I hiss. This dream is _definitely_ not going the way I’d like. I imagine myself calling up a ball of flame in my hands - and perhaps it’s just because this is a very real dream, but I could swear I can actually feel the heat of the fire as it coils between my hands before I throw it at the demon, hitting it firmly in the chest. It shrieks in dismay.

The dream shreds as I’m aware of someone calling my name, hands on my shoulders shaking me. I open my eyes to find Hawke leaning over me, staring down at me worriedly. Leandra is peering anxiously over my shoulder, dressed in a nightgown.

“You were screaming,” says Hawke as he releases my shoulders and leans back.

“I’m sorry,” I manage weakly. “A nightmare.”

“I’ll have Bodahn make some hot sweet tea,” decides Leandra. “That always helps me when I have a bad dream.” 

Hawke nods to her as I slowly sit up, then he sits on the edge of the bed as he turns back to me.

“Can I ask what it was about?” he asks gently. I shrug. 

“A Desire demon,” I reply as I sit up. I begin to describe the dream, glossing over the bit where the creature tried to sexually assault me. Part of me is distracted; Hawke is wearing only a pair of sleep pants, and his chest is covered in dark brown curly hair. _Like a teddy bear_ , I find myself thinking, and in my half-asleep state I find myself idly wondering what it would feel like to touch it. I blink and glance back up at Hawke, who doesn’t seem to have noticed my distracted state. 

In fact, he’s frowning with concern. “A Desire demon? You’re quite sure of that?”

I nod. “Yes. I _do_ know what a Desire demon looks like,” I reply.

“Really? Interesting,” remarks Hawke thoughtfully. He taps his lip with a forefinger, deep in thought as he stares at me. “Either you _are_ a mage, or else that massive magical discharge Anders could sense in you must have attracted a demon to you in your sleep. I think we should talk to Anders about this in the morning.”

“I’m pretty certain I’m not a mage,” I argue. “I don’t know the first thing about magic or how to work it or control it anything like that!”

“Are you sure?” said Hawke gently. “Though I suppose you haven’t even had a chance to even try, have you?”

“I’m not a mage,” I insist firmly.

“Alright, alright!” he laughs, raising his hands placatingly. “I’ll take your word for it!” He lowers his hands, his face becoming sombre. “You seem really uncomfortable at the suggestion you _could_ be, though,” he says slowly. “Is there a reason why you seem bothered by magic? Is this going to be an issue, fighting alongside Anders? You seemed fine with letting him use his magic on you yesterday... is it because of those Tevinter slavers, or is there something I need to be aware of?”

“It’s not that,” I assure him. “It’s just... if I _were_ a mage, I think I’d feel... I don’t know, a connection to the Fade or something, inside? And I’m pretty sure I don’t.” I’m not going to tell him that magic doesn’t exist where I come from.

“It must be the magic residue, then,” decides Hawke. “I’m sorry if I seem to be pushing the mage angle so much; I’m just trying to make sense of what’s happened to you - and seems to still be happening.” He pats my hand comfortingly. “Don’t worry, Arkady; we’ll talk to Anders tomorrow. If anyone can make sense of this, he can.”

Leandra returns at that moment, bearing a tray. She’s brought a pot of tea and three cups.

“It’s near enough dawn,” she remarks. “We may as well get up; Mikhail would have been rising soon in any case.”

I start to apologise for waking everyone but both she and Hawke wave my apologies away.

“I’m an early riser in any case, and Mikhail can never sleep well before an expedition,” she explains.

“It’s hardly an expedition, Mother!” protests Hawke, but Leandra merely smiles. 

“I’ll have Bodahn fix up food for you both to take,” she announces, then eyes me thoughtfully. “Mikhail, would you say Arkady is a similar size to Bethany?”

Hawke blinks then looks me up and down. “A little larger I think - though the same height.” He exchanges a look with his mother. “You’re thinking Beth’s old chain hauberk?”

“Bethany always needed to cinch it in at the sides, but it would adjust to Arkady’s size, don’t you think? She’ll need some form of armour if you’re so set on taking her into that wretched Bone Pit.”

Hawke nods. “A good point,” he agrees.

“I’ll go fetch it; you two stay and finish your tea,” she decides firmly as she gets to her feet.

We finish our tea in companionable silence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giant spiders are scary, dragonlings even more so, and it's time to come clean.

Bethany’s chain hauberk is a little lighter than I was expecting; most reenactment chain I’ve worn tends to be a lot heavier - though that was usually full chain hauberks, and this is more like a long sleeveless chain tunic. It fastens up the sides with leather straps and buckles; I have to loosen them a couple of holes, but otherwise the fit is pretty good. The leather shoulder straps fit fine under the capelet of the Tevinter robes.

Hawke nods approvingly, and Leandra seems relieved that I’m not going entirely unprotected into danger. I’m touched that she’s going to such lengths for a stranger, but she waves off my efforts to thank her.

Anders shows up shortly after, making his way up from Darktown through the Amell estate cellars. He looks tired, and it transpires that he found several patients waiting when he’d gotten back the previous night. I feel guilty at the thought of putting him out further; but the moment Hawke quietly mentions to him my dream, Anders’ eyes sharpen and he gives me a piercing look. He lifts a hand, magic coalescing around it; I assume he’s going to do that magic healing probe thing he did yesterday.

So I’m completely unprepared when he gestures sharply and the ball of light strikes me hard in the solar plexus and I’m suddenly doubled over in pain. It’s a stabbing, burning kind of pain - like a really nasty cramp, knifing through me. I’m unable to do much more than gasp quietly as I wrap my arms around myself and try to remember how to breathe.

He is _so_ off my Satinalia list.

“Well, you’re not possessed,” Anders is saying as Hawke comes to my side to help me stand. He at least looks a little apologetic as I straighten. 

“Let me guess - if I’d been possessed, the demon would have come out and attacked you?” I reply drily. Anders pauses then nods, a thoughtful look on his face. 

“Yes. How did you know? Most people without magical training wouldn’t have known that, unless they’d fought alongside a mage before.”

I shrug. “Seemed a reasonable guess,” I reply. I unsling my bow and check I didn’t damage it when I doubled over so suddenly.

“Perhaps Arkady _has_ fought alongside mages before?” suggests Hawke. He lets his hands fall but remains standing close to me, a faint frown of concern on his face. “There’s so much we don’t know about you yet.”

The bow seems fine; I sling it on my back again and shrug at Hawke. 

“I’m concerned that demons are being drawn to you in your sleep,” Anders continues. “Hawke is likely right - you’re still radiating magic from whatever the magisters did to you which wiped out your memories; that would be extremely tempting to demons. We’ll have to try and find a way to dampen that. Hopefully it will wear off soon.”

“Messere Hawke?” Bodahn interrupts as he approaches us. “Messere Fenris has arrived, and I have your parcels of food ready.” He is carrying four satchels; Fenris is following behind him and nods to us each in turn in greeting.

We each take a satchel, and then head off.

***

The Bone Pit is actually outside Kirkwall. I’ve never been entirely sure from the game exactly _where_ it’s located, so I pay attention with interest as we leave Kirkwall and strike out slightly to the east of the city.At first it looks as though we’re heading back to the coast until Hawke takes a dusty road that leads slightly south - and then, after just under an hour of walking, we arrive at the mine.

There are several miners milling about outside the entrance, all looking nervous and scared; a few are sporting nasty burns as well as spider bites. Anders immediately sets to work, healing and treating them whilst Hawke singles out one of the shift leaders to ascertain just what exactly has happened. Fenris and I wait to one side; I string my bow as we wait and shift the quiver upon my hip so it hangs more comfortably before checking the fletching on the arrows.

I’m aware of Fenris’ eyes on me but he says nothing, though his lip curls in a faint sneer as he glances at my bow. Guess the stallholder was right - and trust me to pick out the one Tevene weapon on that whole table. 

Hawke is frowning slightly as he and Anders rejoin us.

“Spider bites, for the most part - but some of those were quite nasty burns,” Anders reports. Hawke nods.

“It seems some of the miners managed to disturb a nest of dragonlings down on one of the lower levels,” he replies. Anders groans, and Fenris scowls. Hawke glances at me. “How do you feel about facing dragons?” 

I shrug. “Bigger, easier targets than spiders?” I reply, with perhaps more bravado than I actually feel. A dragonling is a baby dragon, right? Got to be easier to kill than a full-sized dragon. On the other hand, some of those burns looked rather nasty. “How tough is the hide of a dragonling?”

“Not as thick as that of a dragon,” replies Anders. “But they _are_ fast.”

“Arkady, I want you to hang back with Anders,” orders Hawke. “He’ll be casting barriers; you two will be dealing ranged attacks whilst Fenris and I go in and engage at close quarters and try to stop anything from getting past us.”

I nod, and glance to Anders who has unslung his staff. Fenris has his massive greatsword in his hands; as my gaze returns to Hawke, he has drawn his blades.

“Everybody ready?” he asks. We nod assent, and then we’re off down into the mines.

Fenris prowls ahead as scout, Hawke following behind. Anders and I bring up the rear. 

“Stay close beside me,” Anders says quietly as we head through dark, narrow tunnels hewn from the rock, lit by flickering torches left in crude wall sconces. “It will be easier for my shield spells to protect us both if you’re not too far away from me.”

I nod. I draw an arrow from the quiver and nock it on the string, my bow half-drawn and ready. I’m inwardly cursing that I haven’t had a chance to practice with this new bow yet - my first few shots are probably going to go wide. Thirty arrows seemed overkill back in the marketplace - but down here in the darkness I find myself wishing I had double that number. A bucket quiver would feel very comforting right now. It’s not straw bales I’ll be aiming at, after all - I’ll be lucky if I can retrieve even half of the arrows I shoot down here in useable condition.

I’m not afraid of spiders. I never have been - in fact, I find them quite fascinating. I’ve handled a tarantula; they’re quite intriguing creatures. I think they’re quite cute. 

The spiders we encounter down here are anything but cute however. It’s one thing to hold a tarantula in your hand and coo over it; it’s another thing entirely to have a giant spider the size of a rottweiler suddenly drop down in front of you, slashing at you with fangs the size of bread knives.

My first shot predictably goes wide, veering off into the darkness without hitting anything - and bugger, it pulls to the left just as my old steel bow did. The second, likewise. The third, however, embeds itself firmly in the head of a spider that had just dropped down in front of Hawke as I rapidly adjust to how the bow pulls. (I try not to think too much about how close I came to skewering Hawke’s head.)

Anders chants something under his breath then gestures; suddenly I feel an odd tingling across my skin and a faint tightening sensation. His shield spell, I’m guessing. He throws up barriers around Hawke and Fenris, then casts paralysis glyphs on the spiders to hold them in place before blasting them with ice and fire.

With the spiders pinned in place by glyphs, it’s much easier to pick them off with my bow; and as my muscles warm up my shots get faster and more accurate. Soon I’m picking them off in mid-air as they drop down.

“Nice shot,” remarks Anders as I skewer one quite neatly through the eye before it can pounce on Fenris’ back.

“Thanks,” I reply absently, another arrow already nocked on my bowstring as I draw and cast around for the next target.

There isn’t one; we seem to have taken care of this particular nest of spiders.

“Anyone need healing?” Anders calls out; Hawke and Fenris both shake their heads. They’re busy checking spider corpses to make sure they’re all dead.

I manage to retrieve most of my arrows fairly intact. A couple will need refletching, but I’ve only lost four, which is pretty good. I’m very glad of all the time I spent shooting moving targets in LARP.

We press on.

Maybe I was a bit too cocky about having acquitted myself so well in our first encounter with spiders; the next one doesn’t go so well. I’m completely unprepared when a large, hissing spider twice the size of the other ones we fought drops down practically on top of me with no warning. It’s too close for my bow, though I bring it up and loose the arrow I had nocked on the string. The arrow embeds itself in the monstrous thing’s abdomen but the spider shows no sign of being bothered by it as it leaps for my face.

I shriek a frightened swear as I throw myself backwards and desperately scrabble for the long knife at my hip; I slash wildly at the spider and I think I manage to get a hit in before it’s got me pinned on my back and those ghastly mandibles are snapping at my throat as I scream. My knife is gone - did I stab it? Was it knocked out of my hand? I don’t know; I can’t remember. I’m struggling to hold the horrible creature away from my face but it’s strong, and I can feel my arms trembling with the strain. Ichor is dripping from those lethal-looking mandibles; I jerk my head aside to avoid it hitting my face.

“The girl is down!” That voice - Fenris.

“Hold on, Arkady!” I think that was Hawke.

There’s a bright flash of light and the spider shudders as Anders’ spell hits it; then it shrieks as a large sword swings down and drives into the joint between its torso and the grossly swollen abdomen. A long dagger lunges forward and jabs deep into one of the creature’s eyes.

Fenris wrenches his blade free then brings it down hard, cutting the spider in half; Hawke kicks it as it collapses, sending the front half bouncing and skittering across the tunnel floor with a spray of stinking spider ichor.

“Are you alright?” he pants as he reaches a hand down to help me back to my feet.

“I... I think so,” I manage shakily as I straighten. I glance around; Fenris has moved over to where the front half has landed. As I watch, he leans down and wrenches something out of one of the dead spider’s eyes; as he walks back to join us, I realise he’s retrieved my knife. 

Well, at least I did hit it. For all the good it did me.

“Your blade will need cleaning,” the elf remarks quietly. “Spider blood is corrosive.”

I stammer my thanks, but he is already turning away to clean his own blade.

“Arkady, are you hurt anywhere?” asks Anders as he starts to check me over. “No bites? Did any of the blood touch you?”

“No, I... I think I’m OK,” I reply, still rather shaken. Anders pauses and looks at me, then turns to Hawke.

“I think we should take a break,” he suggests.

Hawke nods. “Good idea. Fenris?”

The elf shrugs, then nods.

“Alright, take five, everyone,” announces Hawke. He hands me a rag to clean my knife with, and we take a break.

My hands are trembling.

 

***

More spiders as we press deeper into the Bone Pit, and then we find the dragonlings.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. These critters are the size of deer, wingless and scaly with long, sinuous necks and tails and they’re every bit as fast as Anders warned. The game just really doesn’t compare to the real thing; it’s one thing to watch your characters taking down mobs, another thing entirely to see it with your own eyes - and the smell, fucking hell. The Hanged Man seems positively fragrant compared to the sulphurous reek and the stench of rancid meat that clings to them. And they are utterly voracious, vicious and swift. As fast as I drop one, there’s another one that’s almost on top of us before Anders can take it down with a hasty blast of ice. I’m firing arrows as fast as I can nock them on the string, too breathless to even swear. Fenris and Hawke are too busy to come help us either.

Anders is using his staff as a melee weapon as much as he’s using his magic, and I suddenly realise he must be getting pretty close to tapped out, mana-wise. My arms feel like they’re on fire - I have no idea how long we’ve been doing this, but I’m not used to firing a bow over and over for this long. Most LARP battles are usually over pretty fast and then it’s standing around whilst one of the referees tallies up damage.

There are no referees here to call timeout, and damage is measured in blood and pain.

I don’t notice at first when one of the little buggers gets in a lucky bite, until I turn and feel a stab of pain as the movement pulls at the bite and fuck me but that _smarts_. I can feel blood running down my leg with every step and dodge. It’s a burning sort of pain, and I find myself wondering just what sorts of germs live in the mouths of dragonlings. I’m hoping no worse than a dog. I’d reach for one of the healing potions except I don’t have time - there’s too many of them, and -

Shit, shit, shit, that one was _too_ close - I nearly didn’t see it in time but I wallop it with my bow (thank fuck I went for steel) which stuns it enough that I’m able to draw my knife and finish it off. I’m beginning to think I should have checked out the prices of those swords after all; this knife really isn’t big enough for close-up melee for my liking.

“Arkady!” Anders, panting, voice sounding strained - I turn and one of the dragonlings has him down, its jaws clamped around his left wrist, only his leather vambrace protecting him from serious injury. I leave my knife embedded in the dragonling and I have an arrow on the string even as I’m turning; I let fly and the creature drops.

I step in to help him up. 

“Thanks,” he gasps. “Tapped out of mana.”

“Lyrium?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“I’m all out,” he explains. 

“No, d’you want some?” I explain as I reach into the belt pouch where the three vials of lyrium are nestled and press two of them into his hand. He stares down at them in shock.

“Wait - how do you...”

“They were in my pouches and no, I don’t know why and no, I’m still not a mage,” I hiss quietly. Fenris and Hawke are wiping dragonling blood off their blades. “I just don’t want to have to rehash that whole discussion with Fenris again, OK?”

Anders snorts a quiet, understanding laugh. “Fair enough,” he agrees before downing one of the vials, then frowns as he catches sight of the blood running down my leg. “Let me take care of that,” he says, blue energy glowing around his hand. “You never made a sound over that.”

“High tolerance for pain,” I shrug. It’s true. I’m hypermobile; I pull muscles and sublux joints all the time. It’s also true that in the heat of the fight I just didn’t notice; but now the adrenaline is wearing off I’m heartily glad Anders is on hand. The bite was starting to burn really rather fiercely and I’m feeling decidedly queasy. I can usually handle the sight of blood as long as I’m not looking too closely at it - and as long as it isn’t mine.

“Everything alright?” asks Hawke as he rejoins us; he has a nasty burn on his right arm right where there’s a gap in his armour. Fenris is limping slightly as well.

“Fine,” I nod as I head back to the dragonling I left my knife in. I spend the next few minutes rounding up arrows. I’m down to about a dozen that are still useable, and maybe another four more that are salvageable if I can find fletching supplies. I pick up all the broken ones I can find though - I can probably reuse the heads of another three or four. I can’t even find the rest.

By the time I’ve finished, Anders has healed Fenris and Hawke. We go to check out the cavern the dragonlings emerged from, and find what looks like the nest. No sign of the mother though, thank goodness; Fenris and Hawke come to the conclusion this must have been a leftover nest from a dragon they’d killed down here a few months back. They’d thought they’d sealed off all the infested caves, but evidently they’d missed one. We retreat out of the cavern and then Anders pulls down a rockslide to seal it with a blast of Force magic before Hawke and Fenris go harvest scales from the dragonling corpses.

The miners are heartened to hear the dragonlings and spiders have been dispatched, and Hawke’s in a pretty good mood as we head back towards Kirkwall.

“I could tell that was your first time hunting spiders and dragonlings,” remarks Hawke as we walk back along the dusty road towards the city. “You’ve a good aim though, and I could always use another archer. What do you think?”

I shrug. I can’t say as I’m too enthralled about the prospect of another fight like that any time soon - but at the same time, I have no idea how long I’ll be stuck in Thedas and I’ll need the coin if I’m here any length of time. “Sure,” I nod. 

“You are evidently unused to combat with such creatures,” remarks Fenris, eyeing me with an expression I can’t read.

“She did OK, Fenris!” argues Hawke. “Maybe she’s not Varric or Sebastian, but....”

_Ah - so Sebastian_ is _one of the companions then._

Hawke slaps me on the shoulder. “Coming back with us to the Hanged Man?” he asks, and I grin.

“Love to,” I nod. “I need to look on the market for a few oddments though - fletching supplies, that sort of thing.”

Hawke nods, then reaches for one of his belt pouches. “Tell you what - I did offer to pay you; two sovereigns sound about right?” He digs out a couple of gold coins and hands them to me; I nod thanks and tuck them into my coin pouch.

“I’ll come with you, Arkady; I have some things I need to pick up as well,” remarks Anders. Hawke digs out a couple of sovereigns and hands them to the blond apostate, who nods his thanks.

“We’ll meet you guys back at the Hanged Man then,” says Hawke. “I’ll have more coin for you both after I sell off the dragonling scales.”

“Mead, was it not?” Fenris asks me, unexpectedly; when I nod, he gives me a small, brief smile. “It shall be waiting for you.”

I can only stare at him, a little puzzled, as he and Hawke head off in the direction of the tavern. Maybe Fenris doesn’t dislike me as much as I thought?

I’m distracted by Anders taking my elbow and steering me in the direction of the market (at least, I _think_ we’re heading towards the market - I’m still not 100% certain of how to find my way around Kirkwall yet). He leans over and murmurs, “I’d like a little chat, Arkady.”

I glance up at him, startled, then nod. “Alright,” I agree.

We find a quiet alleyway, and he leans against the wall opposite me, arms folded as he stares down at me. “So.”

I mimic his pose and stare back. “So,” I echo. Anders doesn’t smile.

“You’re dressed in Tevinter robes, you’re carrying lyrium, demons seem to be sniffing around your dreams - and somehow you _knew_ it was a Desire demon. For someone who claims to not be a mage you seem to know rather a lot about magic. You’re still full of magic residue - I could feel it as I was healing you, and it doesn’t seem to be dissipating. Yet you handle a bow and a knife, you’re talking about looking for fletching supplies so I presume you know how to actually use them?”

I nod, and he carries on. “So. You claim you know how to brew mead and ride a horse. You’re obviously not a Circle mage then - which makes you either an apostate or else a magister. You have a Ferelden accent though. So who _are_ you, and why are you lying about being a mage?”

_Shit._ “Um. I could tell you, but somehow I don’t think you’ll believe me,” I say nervously. 

He regards me with a skeptical look. “You’d be surprised. Try me.”

“I’m... not from Thedas,” I say slowly. “I come from a world where magic is just fantasy. Where all this -” I gesture vaguely around us, “is just... uh... stories. Like the ones Varric writes. I’ve read about magic, and mages, and demons. But we don’t have mages. So I _can’t_ be a mage, and even if somehow in this world I _am_ one, I wouldn’t have the vaguest clue of how to use magic and I’d be just as likely to set myself on fire as anything else. I’m still not sure this isn’t all some crazy dream and I won’t wake up any minute in my own bed, in my own shitty life which is pretty c-c-crap but at least it’s _familiar_ and in a city where I know my way around and with my _husband_ and my d- _daughter_ and my c-c-c-cats -”

And fuck, I’m crying, and he’s uncrossing his arms and looking worried, and then he’s hugging me and that’s it - full-on ugly crying, snotty nose, the works, and he’s holding me close and stroking my hair and making soothing noises.

“A-a-a-and you d-d-don’t b-believe me and I w-wouldn’t blame y-you because this is all s-s-so _fucked_ and-”

“I believe you,” he interrupts me.

“- s-s-so unbelieveable and - what?” I glance up at him, startled, and he smiles gently.

“I believe you,” he repeats. “It... weirdly, that all makes sense. There were books back in the Circle in Kinloch that theorised there might be other worlds reachable by magic. And you’re practically radiating magic right now - in fact, we better pray there aren’t any templars around or we’ll both be in serious trouble.”

“Shit,” I whisper.

“Let’s get moving,” he suggests, and I nod.

We emerge into the street and head to the market.

“Look... I think the safest thing would be if you come back with me to Darktown,” he suggests. “The other refugees give me a heads-up when the templars come snooping, so you’re probably safer with me than anywhere else. I run a free clinic down there. Darktown isn’t the nicest of places to live but probably the safest for an apostate, and it’s at least a roof over your head.”

I nod, then spot a stall selling fletching supplies; I point it out, and we head over.

As I’m selecting a decent sharp knife, cordage, glue and goose quills for fletching, Anders keeps an eye out for templars. “If you’re staying with me, Hawke will know where to find you. And I have contacts that might be able to smuggle out books from the Gallows, though it’ll be risky.”

“I don’t want to put anyone in danger,” I murmur as I look over a bundle of wooden shafts; I’m not sure what wood they’re made from, but it smells like cedar. I nod to the stallholder who comes over with a bored look. “I need arrowheads - have you got any bodkins?” I ask him.

“Needle bodkins and broadheads - both barbed and non-barbed,” nods the stallholder, showing me an array of arrowheads. 

“You won’t,” Anders replies with a shrug, then watches with curiosity as I pick out a handful of bodkin heads and another of small swallowtail barbs. “Why the different arrowheads?”

“The ones I’ve got already are just ordinary broadheads - flat, triangle shape, large cutting edges - a basic all-round arrow for hunting. Bodkins are long, narrow, designed for punching through armour - or dragonhide.” I flash him a quick grin and he chuckles. “The small swallowtails are for hunting small prey.” I turn back to the stall holder. “I’ll take these, thanks.”

Anders waits until I’ve paid and the stallholder has wrapped up my purchases, then we move on.

“It doesn’t surprise me that you showed up so close to Kirkwall; the Veil is very thin here,” he continues as we walk. “I’m guessing the magister we fought dragged you here by mistake whilst trying to summon a demon of some kind. I’m not sure just how we’ll send you back, but I’ll do everything I can to help you, alright?”

“Thank you, Anders,” I reply gratefully. “I know this all sounds so far-fetched, but -”

Anders merely grins. “The far-fetched seems to be normal around Hawke,” he shrugs. “I take it you haven’t said anything to him then?”

I shake my head, then touch his arm and nod my head at a haberdasher’s stall. There’s a tear in my leggings from the dragonling bite and I want to patch it. He nods, and we walk over.

“You can sew, then?” he asks. I nod, picking out thread and a packet of needles.

“And cook, and brew, and the rest of it,” I reply. “I do a bit of everything, really. Jack of all trades, master of none - that’s me.” I grin ruefully.

“Pardon?” He looks startled.

“Sorry - just a phrase in the world I come from,” I explain. “Back on Earth.”

“Earth? Is that what your world is called?” he asks, then snorts. “If nothing else convinced me you were telling the truth, that would - I’d expect someone making up a story to come up with a fancier name than that!”

I grin. “I know, right? And we call the moon just ‘the Moon’. Unimaginative lot, us Earthlings.” He laughs. 

We pick up a few more things - a pack and bedroll for me, some herbs and oddments for him - and then we head back through the marketplace towards the Hanged Man.

I find myself eyeing up all the stalls with swords as we pass.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music is the answer and Anders has a nightmare. Kirkwall is the city of weird and I suspect we're the weirdest things in it. It must be Tuesday.

By the time we get to the Hanged Man, I’ve told him pretty much everything. What really clinches it is when I sing him several English and Scottish folk songs; they’re nothing he’s ever heard before in any tavern, and I think the fact they’re obviously so old and familiar to me - singing about countries he’s never even heard of - makes it clear for him beyond a doubt that I’m really not from Thedas. Though weirdly it’s when I start singing a smattering of songs in French and Italian, from opera and a few musicals I’m fond of, that his eyes light up. Apparently the French reminds him of Orlesian, and the Italian of Antiva; he’s describing Zevran to me as we enter the tavern.

“Sing that love song one again,” he asks as we’re walking in, and I grin self-consciously before launching into one of the Italian songs again.

I’m aware of heads turning as we walk across the common room towards the stairs up to Varric’s room; when we reach Varric’s room, we find Fenris, Hawke, Varric, Isabela, Merrill and Sebastian waiting, and both Fenris and Isabela stare at me as my voice tails off. Fenris rises to his feet, but Isabela speaks first.

“That’s almost Antivan, but it’s not. Sweet thing, where on Thedas are you from?”

I feel Anders’ hand upon my shoulder, and it gives me the strength to meet her eye.

“I’m not.”

 

***

I have to go through the whole thing again, with frequent interruptions from Hawke, Varric and - unexpectedly - Merrill, who is wildly curious. Fenris is outright skeptical, as is Sebastian; Hawke seems inclined to believe me, and Varric is furiously scribbling everything down. It’s only when, at Anders’ urging, I sing through every folk song I can dredge up from memory, every scrap of opera, the two versions of _Ave Maria_ I know, every fragment of every musical I’ve ever sung along to (and I’m sure I’m butchering the couple of Hungarian songs I feel half-confident enough to sing through, though at least one of them comes from a musical I know almost by heart in French - and I think that weirdly, _that’s_ the one that clinches it) until I’m hoarse, that finally Fenris slides my glass of mead to me.

“Enough,” he says, quietly yet firmly. “I am satisfied. Those languages are alien to my ear and yet they sound consistent - you are not merely making up gibberish. These words have meaning, though I do not understand them.”

Varric has ordered stew for Anders and I as I’ve been singing, and I make a weak joke about singing for our supper before tucking in. It’s been a long day, and whilst I’m not sure just what the meat is - or any of the misshapen lumps of vegetables might be - it’s savoury, filling and much needed. 

There is silence for a while, as Anders and I finish eating, and then I sip my mead as the others absorb what I’ve told them. It’s Anders who speaks first.

“The Veil is very thin around Kirkwall.”

“Aye,” nods Sebastian slowly. “If a stranger from another world could find their way into our world, it would be here.” He eyes me thoughtfully. “Tell me - has your world ever known the Maker?”

There is an outbreak of groans from around the table, and I can’t help chuckling.

“Sebastian, I would love to discuss comparative theology with you, but not tonight - please?”

He has the grace to look abashed, though Merrill has perked up and is leaning towards me with a keen look in her eye. Before she can speak, however, Anders is rising to his feet.

“Enough, everyone - Arkady is exhausted. We’ve been fighting spiders and dragonlings, and she’s been singing to you for a couple of hours. She needs to rest, and we need to get back to Darktown.”

“She’s staying with you?” asks Hawke with a frown.

“Hawke, she’s radiating magic. It’s a wonder we haven’t had the templars knocking already - can you honestly think of anywhere safer for her?” replies Anders.

“Blondie has a point,” remarks Varric. “Go on, you two - we can pick this up again tomorrow, alright?” 

“Mother will be disappointed,” shrugs Hawke. “I think she’s missed having another woman around.”

“Please thank her from me for her hospitality last night,” I reply sincerely.

He nods and waves us off. “Let’s pick this up again tomorrow afternoon - I should have sold those dragonling scales by then.”

I sling my bow on my back as Anders does the same with his staff, then pausing only to grab my new pack we head down into the common room and out into the cool evening air.

Anders leads me down into the lower reaches of Lowtown and then to a rather rickety lift that takes us down into the bowels of Darktown. Actually, “bowels” is an apt description - Darktown is dank, unpleasant, dimly lit and reeks of sewage and rot. Unsurprising, given that it’s basically the sewer system of the city. I take a slow, steady, deep breath in - attempting not to gag on the fetid stench - and then exhale. The next breath isn’t quite so bad, thankfully.

“Watch your footing and keep your hand on your knife,” Anders warns me in a low voice as he unslings his staff to carry it in his hand.

“Right about now I’m kind of wishing I had a sword,” I admit. 

“Bows, knives, now a sword - is there any weapon you _don’t_ know how to use?” he grins at me.

“I’m pretty crap with a quarterstaff,” I offer. “And I’m not _that_ good with a sword - most of the swordfighting I’ve done has been stage or reenactment stuff - you know, people dressing up to fight a battle for show, that kind of thing.”

“People do that in your world?” exclaims Anders, startled.

“Well... yeah. It’s supposed to be an educational thing - show people what happened during events in past history, you know? But mostly we do it for fun. Anyway, that’s where I learned to do a lot of old historical stuff - campfire cookery, swordfighting, jousting, stuff like that.” I shrug. “Plus whenever I read about a skill, I want to try it out.” I sidestep around a pile of refuse and detritus that might have been a dead body - it’s dark down here and I really don’t want to look too closely. “Never thought I’d find myself in a situation where all of that stuff would turn out to be useful though.”

“Huh,” Anders replies, his tone thoughtful. “Your world seems very strange to me.”

“It’s just ‘home’ to me,” I shrug. “Here, almost _everything_ is strange to _me_. Feels kind of weird, being the alien.”

“Kirkwall _is_ weird,” shrugs Anders. “The Veil is ridiculously thin, there’s a warband of Qunari camped out semi-permanently near the docks, the Knight-Commander’s a megalomaniac who sees blood mages around every corner and the city’s still full of refugees from the last Blight. A stranger from another world? You’re just one more piece of Kirkwall’s weirdness.” 

“Gee, _thanks_ ,” I say slowly, not entirely sure whether I’ve been complimented or not. He glances at me with a wry smile.

“You’re welcome,” he shrugs. “If it helps, I’m probably another piece, and Hawke _definitely_ is. You’re in good company.”

"And Fenris?" I ask. He darts me a sharp look, then glances away, pensive. _Interesting._ I try to squelch my inner fenders fansquee. This isn't one of my fanfics, after all.

"And Fenris," he finally nods.

We walk in silence after that; each occupied with our own thoughts.

We make it back to the clinic without incident; Anders bars the door behind us then leads me into the clinic proper.

“I’ve got a little room curtained off back here for myself,” he explains as we walk towards the back of the clinic. “It’s not much, but it does give me a little privacy when I have patients that need to stay overnight. There’s a little corner alcove over here where we can do the same for you whilst you’re staying here.” He sets his staff down; I unsling my bow and set it on one of the cots and drop my pack down next to it, then we walk over to the alcove.

It doesn’t take long to clear the alcove of the crates that have been shoved in there at some point. There’s just enough room to set up one of the cots and have a little bit of floor space; Anders rustles up some spare, reasonably clean bedding and once we’ve set up an empty crate as a bedside table and strung up a makeshift curtain it’s almost homey.

“I’m generally awake fairly early,” Anders tells me as I move my few belongings into the alcove. “I... don’t sleep well at the best of times, and people come for healing at all hours of the day and night.” He pauses then eyes me speculatively. “I don’t suppose you know anything about healing, do you?”

“I’m not a doctor, if that’s what you mean,” I reply. “I can do first aid and I can apply a bandage or splint a limb though. I’m not fantastic with blood, but I can deal with it. Particularly if it’s not mine.”

“Duly noted,” he nods. “Well... I’ll bid you goodnight then, Arkady.”

“You too, Anders,” I reply.

I tug the curtain closed as he heads towards his own room, and then I undress swiftly down to my sleeveless undertunic before crawling into bed. It’s not the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept on, but at the same time I’ve slept on plenty that were worse. I’m tired enough that I drift off fairly quickly.

***

I go from deep sleep to wide awake in seconds, convinced I’ve heard my daughter call out. It’s a knack many mothers seem to acquire - waking up the instant they hear a faint sound that might be a child awake. Except that whimper I just heard wasn’t a child.

It’s a grown man in the throes of a nightmare.

I sit up; there’s no way I could just quietly go back to sleep whilst a few feet away from me Anders is evidently having a really unpleasant dream. At the same time, I’m not sure what exactly I should do about it.

Then he cries out, and I’m on my feet and moving towards his little room without even thinking about it, padding across the floor on bare feet and reaching for the curtain before I can check myself.

Anders is lying on his back, the thin blanket wrapped around his legs and rucked up; the flickering light of the single candle burning on a shelf over his cot throws a soft glow over his anguished face as he pants, open-mouthed with distress, eyes clenched shut.

My late ex-husband used to react pretty violently when woken from a nightmare; I learned a long time ago that it’s generally safer to shake the leg of someone having a nightmare than shake their shoulder. I crouch down near the foot of the cot and shake his leg gently, then more firmly whilst calling his name.

“Anders. Anders! It’s OK, it’s just a bad dream!”

He awakens with a ragged cry and pushes himself upright, eyes wide and hair in wild disarray as he frantically pulls his legs away; it’s the fierce glowing blue-white light that blazes from his eyes that makes me pull away though, with an involuntary exclamation of “Shit!”

Anders blinks, and his eyes are amber-brown again, and he’s staring at me with a look of worried trepidation.

“Arkady?” He lifts his hands placatingly. “Look - please, I’m not going to hurt you, I can explain -”

“It’s OK,” I say gently as I straighten then perch myself on the edge of the cot, trying to ignore the way it creaks alarmingly. “You were having a nightmare. The whole... glowy eyes thing startled me, but it’s OK.”

“Oh fuck,” he whispers as he slumps back against the wall. “You weren’t supposed to see that. I don’t suppose I can persuade you to pretend you didn’t?”

“Anders... it’s OK. You startled me, that’s all,” I reply.

“You’re... taking this remarkably calmly,” he says slowly. “It... doesn’t bother you that I’m... possessed?”

I shrug. “You’re not about to go all ‘rar, big scary flesh-eating abomination’ on me, are you?” I joke.

“Maker, no!” he says hastily, looking a little queasy at the very suggestion. One hand has crept up to rub at a hideous-looking scar over his heart. “Look, he - Justice doesn’t mean you any harm. He’s not a demon. He was caught outside the Fade, and he would have perished if I hadn’t taken him into myself. We’re... one now. I saved his life and then he saved mine in return. Please believe me - he means you no harm, I -”

“Anders, I said it’s alright,” I smile gently at him. “I’m not afraid - of him or you.”

“Perhaps you should be,” he laughs bitterly, then runs his hands through his hair with a groan. “Maybe it was a mistake bringing you down here. Perhaps you should have stayed with Hawke after all.”

“Why?” I ask, with a shrug. “I mean, Justice has never threatened any of your patients, has he?”

He regards me wryly. “None of _them_ has ever tried to wake me up from a nightmare,” he points out.

“Would you rather I hadn’t?” I ask. 

“Maker, no,” he admits with a sigh. “That was... one of the worse ones.”

“Look, let me go make us some tea or something. I dare say we could both use a hot drink.” I get to my feet as he nods.

I fetch flint and steel from my pack, then after a little hunting around I find the corner where it looks like Anders does all his cooking and potion-brewing. I find something that looks and smells like chamomile and manage to unearth where he keeps his cups. It takes a little work before I can get a spark to catch from the steel, but after that I’ve soon got a decent fire going and a kettle of water heating over it. It’s no more different than lighting a fire at a reenactment camp, really.

Anders has emerged from his little alcove by the time the tea is steeped and brewed; he’s put on a ratty grey shirt over his sleep pants, and looks a little more with it. He takes his cup of tea and gives me a lopsided rueful smile.

“I really _am_ sorry I woke you like that,” he says after a moment, staring down into his cup. “Oh, chamomile. Good choice.”

“It’s one of the few herbs you’ve got that I actually recognise,” I answer with a shrug. “You’ll have to tell me what some of those others are later and tell me what their uses are.”

“I’d be glad to,” he replies with a smile. “In fact, I have a couple of texts on herbal medicine you might find interesting.”

“Absolutely!” I nod.

We sip tea in companionable silence for a while before he speaks again. “No more demonic visitations again, I hope?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” I shrug. “You’re not going to zap me again are you?”

He chuckles. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” he answers.

There’s a sudden frantic banging on the door and then a frightened, muffled call of “Healer! Healer, please!” Anders gets to his feet with a sigh.

“No rest for the wicked,” he shrugs.

He’s not wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a busy morning. I lose track of time, working in the clinic alongside Anders. Broken limbs to be set, splints applied; poultices to prepare and apply, dressings to be changed. He handles the more serious injuries and wounds; I handle a lot of the simpler stuff. I’m unfamiliar with his clinic, where he keeps things, the smells and sounds;I’m clumsy, and I feel slow and stupid next to Anders. I try to keep up. For some reason I find myself dealing with quite a number of children; I feel my nerves frazzling a little even as I plaster on what I hope looks like a reassuring smile as I clean cuts, smooth salve onto bruises, triaging as I go and sizing up which ones I can deal with and which ones need Anders. In quieter moments, I brew us both tea; the first couple of times I bring him a cup he’s startled and surprised, and it occurs to me that he’s not used to taking a break - much less having someone else around who brings him something hot to drink. It’s one of the few times I don’t feel useless and out of my depth, to be honest.

The flow of people slows sometime around noon, and Anders takes the opportunity to go over the various herbs he uses with me and what they’re used for. He digs out the herbal book he’d mentioned; it rather reminds me of _Culpeper’s Herbal_ in tone - I’ve got a copy of that at home somewhere. Though the actual remedies and preparations look rather more scientific and efficacious; more like a couple of medical herbalism books that I’ve browsed through in the past. I picked up an interest in herbal medicine years and years ago, when I first read Jean M. Auel’s “Clan of the Cave Bear”. It remains one of my favourite books and spurred a lot of my fascination with paleolithic living and survivalism (from the point of view of “hey, these are cool skills, I wonder how hard it would be to learn to be self-sufficient like that?” rather than the weird guns-and-camo end of the world survivalist types; those guys are fucking _scary_ ); and right now, seeing as I have no idea how long I’m going to be stuck here, I’m really glad that my insatiable curiosity has led me to pick up a lot of skills that back home aren’t much use, just cool to know - but here are likely to be valuable, practical skills. And here I am, picking up more courtesy of a character in a video game - who is standing close beside me, real and living and breathing and quietly directing me through the instructions to brew a simple elfroot healing potion.

I have no idea why I’m still in Thedas; I’ve spent two nights here now, and I guess I’d just hoped I’d wake up back in my own bed at some point - but I’m fairly certain now that for one reason or another, I’m pretty much stuck here until I find some way of getting back home. Everything is just too real to be a dream. There’s none of the weird time-dilation or contraction effects you get with dreams, for instance. And certain things are just too vivid and real - as I crush elfroot with a pestle and mortar, I can feel the stone grinding, and smell the sharp green tang of the elfroot.

“What are you thinking?” asks Anders quietly.

“That this is all too real to be a dream,” I reply. “That first night, I honestly thought I’d wake up in my own bed - but instead Hawke woke me up from that nightmare. And then last night, I figured maybe _this_ was it - but instead I heard _you_ having a nightmare, and I’m still here.”

“I’m sorry about that -” he begins; I shake my head and shoot him what I hope is a reassuring smile.

“Oh, no, don’t be!” I reply. “It wasn’t your fault.” I sigh. “But I figure if I haven’t woken up back home yet, that probably means I’m kind of stuck here until I find a way to get back to my world.”

He rests his hand on my shoulder for a moment. “Hawke will help,” he says gently. “And I’ll do what I can as well.”

I smile noncommittally. I know he’s trying to be comforting, but right now my mood is... not good. My nerves have been steadily frazzling all morning, and whilst learning herbcraft and making poultices has been keeping my brain and hands both occupied in a way that feels calming and soothing, contemplating my current predicament is steadily working at my nerves again. At the back of my mind is this grim feeling that I’m stuck here, with no way back; and whilst it’s all well and good fantasising about what it would be like to find myself in Thedas whilst back in my own world, the reality is decidedly less pleasant. 

I know Anders is waiting for a response though, so I glance up at him, still smiling. “Your Hawke is a force of nature unto himself,” I reply.

Anders lifts his hand to run it distractedly through his hair as he coughs slightly and glances away, a slight blush on his cheeks. “Hardly _my_ Hawke,” he replies as he shifts slightly to reach for a bundle of crystal grace. “You’re... not wrong though. Hawke does have a way of crashing into your life with the force of a tornado and whirling you off with him.”

“Leaving a similar trail of damage?” I smile wryly.

“You’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference, sometimes,” Anders admits. 

I’m about to answer when my stomach suddenly growls loudly, and it’s my turn for my cheeks to grow red. Anders darts me a startled glance and then groans. “Maker, I’m sorry, Arkady - it’s past noon and we didn’t eat this morning. I’m a terrible host - first I wake you up and now I’m starving you.” 

I shrug. “We both lost track of time.”

We eat a simple meal of bread and cheese from a basket of supplies Anders has been given by the family of one of his patients in lieu of payment; afterwards, I fetch my fletching supplies whilst Anders sets to work to clean and sharpen the blade on the foot of his staff. He darts a glance over at me from time to time as I trim goose quills with the small sharp knife I picked up from the fletcher’s stall then fasten them to the arrow shafts with hide glue and thread, just the way my friend Keith taught me years ago. I’m wondering what Keith would say to this predicament I’ve found myself in when Anders clears his throat slightly.

“Arkady... I’ve been thinking,” he begins slowly. I lay the arrow I was working on across my lap and glance up at him.

“You’re pretty sure you’re not a mage -”

I snort. “I’m certain,” I reply. “I think if I were then I would probably have reacted instinctively when that spider dropped on me and, I don’t know, zapped it with a lightning bolt or something, surely?”

He hums, then shrugs. “The magical discharge in you has faded somewhat, but I can still pick up _something_ there. I thought -” He gives a small chuckle. “Never mind. Can I ask why you feel so negatively about the idea you _might_ be, though? You seem comfortable enough around my magic, after all.”

“Anders, I _know_ how mages get treated in Thedas. They get locked up, or else they spend their lives looking over their shoulders for templars. No-one sane would want to live like that.”

“Am I insane, then?” he asks, his eyes darkening and a small frown creasing his brow. “Freedom is worth the price of vigilance – and I’m not ashamed of my magic. ‘Magic was made to serve man, not rule over him’ - well, I don’t believe that means it needs to be locked up, quite the opposite! Magic can do _good_ \- it’s _useful_ , and it serves no-one if those who wield it are locked away from childhood like slaves -”

His eyes are flashing now and there’s a certain ranting tone creeping into his voice; I raise my hands placatingly.

“Anders, I agree! I completely agree! But think about it – would anyone actually _choose_ such a life? To be a fugative or else imprisoned, unless you want to be a blood mage in Tevinter – which, no thanks. It’s not much of a choice, really. But that’s not the only reason.” I stare at him as he runs a hand through his hair and exhales through his nose with a frustrated noise but then gestures at me to continue.

“Anders, where I come from, we don’t have magic. If I’m a mage, that means I wouldn’t have the vaguest clue how to use it. Like I said – if I _were_ a mage, I think the magic would have manifested by now.” I give him a lopsided smile. “Part of me thinks it would be rather cool to have magic – but I’m enough of a Mary Sue already, don’t you think?”

He blinks. “Mary Sue?” he echoes, uncomprehending, and I smack my forehead. 

“D’oh,” I mutter. “Uh... it’s a thing in fanfic – where fans of, uh, plays and books and stuff, they write their own stories based on the characters and stuff. A Mary Sue is a self-insert – usually an idealised and too-perfect one, who’s too competent for their level of skills and experience. Though if the self-insert is _actually_ the author it’s technically not a Mary Sue.”

“You think you’re a character in a story?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. I snort.

“Hopefully not one of mine,” I mutter, thinking about some of the things I’ve put characters through in some of my stories. “No,” I reply. “Though I’ve often joked that if I wrote myself into a story no-one would believe I wasn’t a Mary Sue; I’ve just done a lot of stuff in my forty-five years of existance.”

“You’re older than I am,” remarks Anders. “You don’t look it.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t look to be in your forties either,” I retort. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?” As he blinks at me, I shake my head. “No, I’m not flirting with you. Married woman, remember? Just pointing out you’re not the only one who doesn’t look his age.”

“Who told you my age?” he asks, frowning.

“A good guess,” I say hurriedly. I am _not_ going to try and explain the concept of video games to him! Or that _he_ is a character who shows up in a lot of fanfics. Particularly mine.

He seems mollified however, as he shrugs. “Fair enough,” he replies. “And I... sort of understand what you mean. Despite having been locked away in Kinloch for over two decades, I’ve... done a fair amount of living myself. Far be it for me to doubt another’s experiences – mage or no.” He absently rubs the spot over his chest where that hideous scar is; I’m not sure he’s even aware he’s doing it. He stares into space for a moment, then blinks and glances back to me. “Hawke will be waiting,” he declares in a different tone of voice. “We should go. It would be wrong to tarry.”

Justice nagging him, I surmise. I slide the finished arrow into the quiver at my side then tidy away my tools and goose quills back into their packets. “I’m ready,” I say as I stand, slinging the satchel and quiver over my shoulder then settling my bow on my back as Anders slings his staff on his back.

I have to trot to keep up as Anders’ long legs carry him swiftly through Darktown; I catch up to him as he reaches the lift that takes us up to Lowtown. As we head towards the Hanged Man I realise I’m starting to recognise and remember my way around those streets that were unfamiliar yesterday. 

Varric and Hawke are sitting at the table in Varric’s quarters upstairs at the Hanged Man when we arrive; there’s no sign of Fenris yet, but Isabela is lounging across from Hawke and greets us with a smile.

“Ah, Anders, Arkady! No more demon visitations last night, I hope?” Hawke grins.

“Thankfully, no,” I reply as I unsling my bow and drop my pack beside the chair next to Isabela; Anders is taking the seat next to Hawke. The rogue tosses a pouch of coin over to me; I manage to catch it without fumbling too badly. Anders is tucking his own pouch away; I drop mine into the one my other coin is in.

“Those dragonling scales sold pretty well,” Hawke remarks. “And I ran into Aveline in the market; she wasn’t too happy to hear about slavers on the coast and asked us if we could go check it out and make sure there aren’t any more up there.”

“That’ll please Fenris,” snorts Isabela.

“What will please me?” asks the elf himself as he appears in the doorway. Hawke grins.

“Fancy another jaunt out to the coast to kill slavers, Fenris?” he asks as he tosses a pouch of coin to the elf; Fenris snatches it out of the air without thought and tucks it into a belt pouch before unslinging his massive two-handed greatsword and standing it against the wall. He takes the seat next to mine.

“I am _always_ pleased to hunt slavers, Hawke,” Fenris replies as Isabela gets up to fetch drinks for us all. Fenris glances to Varric. “Will you be joining us on this excursion?”

Varric nods. “Bianca feels itchy at the thought of slavers,” he replies.

“Isabela wants to come too,” Hawke interjects. “Something about a relic she needs to track down. Castillion has been on her case about it; he’s still hassling her over letting that cargo of slaves go.”

“Quite right too,” declares Anders; Fenris nods firmly.

“Well, if we’re going to be pissing off slavers, I’m happy to volunteer my bow,” I shrug. “If you don’t mind another archer tagging along?” I glance to Varric.

“Be my guest!” he replies with a broad grin. “The more the merrier!”

“And it’s not as if there’s anything to keep you here in Kirkwall just now, is there?” adds Hawke, though his voice phrases it as a question.

“Not right now, anyway,” Anders answers for me. “Besides, with her still radiating magic right now, I’d rather we kept Arkady with us and well away from templars.” He glances to Hawke. “You’ll want me along as healer I presume?”

“I’m surprised you wanted to sit next to me then, Fenris, if I’m radiating magic that strongly?” I say without thinking; his brow furrows in a frown and I add hurriedly, “You don’t seem to be too fond of mages, and though I’m not a mage I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me -”

“You babble like the witch,” he interrupts.

“- er... sorry?” I tail off, lamely. He waves a hand dismissively.

“The magic makes the lyrium in my skin itch, but no more than the mage does by sitting across from me. I would assume you were a mage had I not seen with my own eyes that you did not instinctively turn to magic when that spider dropped on you,” he replies with a shrug.

“A point which I’ve tried to make already,” I shrug. Fenris’ eyes narrow.

“Has the mage been badgering you with his rants about mage freedom?” he says darkly.

“Oh, come _on!_ ” explodes Anders. “You surely can’t -”

“Enough!” cries Hawke. “Anders, calm down – Fenris, stop baiting my only healer! Arkady, I’m sorry – we’re not normally like this, honestly -”

“No, we are frequently worse,” mutters Fenris quietly as Isabela returns with drinks for us all. Anders sits back with a sullen look, darting a last glare at Fenris before turning his attention to his mug.

Well, _that_ seemed more like how I was expecting Anders and Fenris to react to each other, I reflect as I reach for my cup of mead.

“Right, so, if we’ve all quite finishes sniping at each other?” says Hawke testily; Anders shrugs as Fenris gives a single nod. Hawke carries on. “It’s a little later in the day than I’d like, but I figure if we head off after these drinks then we should make it out to the coast before sundown in time to find a decent campsite. Arkady, you can share Isabela’s tent; Anders, you’ll be with Varric – Fenris, you’ll be with me. Any questions?”

People shake their heads; Isabela darts me a grin around Fenris as the elf downs the last of his wine. “You and me, aye, sweet thing?” she asks.

“Keep it in your pants, Isabela,” says Hawke chidingly without looking at her as he finishes his ale.

“Oh, Hawke, I’m only being friendly,” shrugs Isabela. “Poor girl’s got no-one else in Kirkwall after all.”

“If there is another magister with these slavers, perhaps we can find some answers as to how she comes to be in Kirkwall in the first place,” remarks Anders.

“Answers would be really good,” I nod, then finish the rest of my mead. The others are rising; I scramble up to tug my pack and quiver over my shoulder before reaching for my bow. Varric is pulling out some large packs which Hawke, Fenris and Anders sling onto their backs; looks like the tents are usually stored in Varric’s quarters between expeditions out to the coast or Sundermount. I guess I’d never thought about it before, but it makes sense – Varric has the room here, and Hawke’s only recently moved to his place.

We head through Lowtown’s market so I can pick up a bedroll and blanket for myself; the others wait for me to stash the blanket in my own pack and tie the bedroll to it, and then we’re off.

I’m glad I took up hiking last year; it means I have no problem keeping up with the pace the others set. Though I have to say that since waking up in Thedas I’ve felt healthier and fitter than I’ve felt in years; I haven’t felt a twinge from the fibro even once. Something about the air, maybe. Or perhaps some nice side effect from the magical discharge that Anders and Fenris can still feel. I still have no idea what I’m doing in Thedas, or how I got here – but things could be worse. At least I had the good fortune to wake up to Hawke and co rather than the slavers.

Or Tal Vashoth.


End file.
